On the State(s) of (the) Arts

St. Paul, MN--In the surprisingly-lushly-appointed-but-not-opulent basement of Philip and Preston, who have so graciously allowed us to tread our muddy feet all over their home for the past three-or-four-or-five nights (honestly, we have absolutely no idea what day of the month or week it is anymore), and posting way too late at night to get up early in the morning. I've spent the weekend around people intimately involved in the bestowing of grants of various kinds, and who are experienced in, you know, the politics and shit (nothing gets you street cred more quickly than appending “and shit” to the end of every sentence you speak, although something of the effect is lost when you either: (A) write it; (B) write it on a blog; or (C), went to a white-person college), and I'm not really sure what to make of it all. It's the sort of thing you know goes on but that you ignore, if you're not involved in it, to the point where every time you're reminded of it you get a little jolt of surprise and memory at the same time, that this is practically the only system for distributing the money to support the arts, and consequently of distributing the arts, in America.

Speculative aside (i.e. footnote #1 if Blogger had footnotes): I'm sure this point has been raised since time immemorial, or at least since the early 1990s which is practically the same thing, but I first heard it a few months ago, and that's that the patron system in the arts was historically an almost exclusively Western concept. In most cultures, what we call “art” is thought of as an integrated part of everyday life (now obviously “we” refers to Europeans/Americans and I so totally do not want to get into the globalization shit right now but you all know what I mean, problematic though my terminology may be), not as a set of exclusive events (e.g. we're going to the opera (i.e. “art”) and then later we will go drink port and smoke some fine Balinese cigars (i.e. “not-art”, and do they make cigars in Bali?)), and consequently... well I suppose there have been a few consequences of this different kind of conception. One, which I will not address much here, is that art is seen as simply another type of consumption, a sort of hobby, be as it might a highbrow one. This is pretty clearly related to the second effect, which I find the most interesting, which is that in few other cultures in the world is the production and consumption of “art” so clearly divided among two groups: the artists and the audience. I'm too badly-read (I hope just too young, but I'm not inclined to give myself the benefit of the doubt) on this subject to analyze it in any depth, but it's a fascinating distinction, isn't it? We have people who specialize in making art. Now, one obvious problem is that the exclusivity of the “artists' club” can lead to a kind of resentment by those excluded, especially if we haphazardly speculate that the lack of this distinction in most other cultures points to a kind of basic human urge to create art, and that the sorting of people into “artists” and “non-artists” at let's face it a very young age based on developed skill at that point, and much though we might deny this it's pretty clearly true that talented young artists are pushed to further their skills in ways that the less-talented are not because the number of teachers is obviously finite, and while it clearly makes sense to encourage the talented artists to produce art we can clearly worry about what effect this rationing has on the untalented, must surely do much to engender such stances as the GOP likes to take regarding the NEA.

But let's not forget that third rail of arts funding: that the most popular arts and artists require no funding, no grants; that the market (such as it is) bestows upon these lucky few not just the resources to continue production of their art, but riches such that they might live like kings. The “popular arts” and their royalty exist in an entirely different world from those who labor in the shadows, and consequently it is difficult to conceive of the fact that the works of both these groups are put into the world for ostensibly similar reasons.

I'd like to continue, and indeed I might do so tomorrow, but it's been my experience that when I don't sleep before kayaking I can get pretty grouchy. Grouch. Also most of this post was a “Speculative Aside” which is bullshit.

In Which Various Neurons Get Fired in Precisely the Wrong Order

Minneapolis, MN--No shit. We're back in the Twin Cities; I came to downtown Minneapolis from out near the edge of the suburbs--and you have to understand that Minneapolis/St. Paul ”suburbs“ don't have a whole lot of urb to be sub, although I guess this last point is pretty obvious from the fact that I got like immediately downtown, and even here it's a pretty stark... well actually it's not even much of a contrast because nowhere does it become terrifically obvious (save for when you look up at the 'scrapers) that you're in a significant urban center. All the elements that define this urban riverbank are present in various other places: you've gone under highways before, you've seen factories flabbily bulging down to water's edge (and near Monticello you even saw liquid from one of these factories pouring right into the River and you didn't want to imagine what it might be). And OK, so I didn't want to do the dams, at least not to be the first one through them, so I haven't gotten necessarily to the heavy part yet (that particular pleasure has been reserved for Eve's turn tomorrow), but we took a look at it to quell our qualms and it doesn't look too unbearably frightening.

OK sorry to change the subject but I can feel my resolve to WRITE fading (seriously guys I'm so tired and I'm doing this for you damnit) and I want to toss off a few halfway-considered ideas or some fuckin thing so guys it is so weird and magnificent to be back in a city. And I don't know why I say back because it's not as though I live in a city the rest of the time, far from it, but something about this trip feels like a jump from city to city or at least from town to town, which makes plenty of sense from a practical perspective, and it's not as though we get anywhere by avoiding people. Forgive me, I know that this is probably the least coherent paragraph I've written yet and that's a distinction that takes some effort to achieve but I really shouldn't have done 35 the other day although honestly I think it's more the time in the sun that's devastating the tiny corner (except it's not really a corner (footnote: does a sphere have corners? What if it's aligned on a 3D graph? Would the corners be those areas furthest from any axis? I know the brain's not spherical--it's the one part of neuro I remember, besides how ”personality“ actually means ”correctable chemical imbalance“.)) OF MY BRAIN that works on logic and reason and other good stuff (none of you assholes better point out that modern neuroscience is obviously a descendant of the Enlightenment and so how can I condemn one but not the other and fuck you I just can it's my blog I'm sorry I'm so tired and punchy I think what's happening is my neurological processes are so slow at this point that my hand can pretty much record them in real time so look out world.

OK anyway so whatever. Let me serenade you in the dulcet seductive tones of a wise world-weary lounge singer. I worry about becoming so lost in the voyage that I can't think critically about it (Ed.: what don't you worry about? And do you call what you do thinking?). Being in a city as hip as Minneapolis/St. Paul (do Minnesotans ever refer to the cities as ”the Twins“?) makes me conscious of trying to be hip, while as recently as Little Falls I was going out of my way to appear vaguely unhip, or at least not aggressively hip (I may be overstating my inherent hipness but I figure I'll err on the side of caution). I'm not sure which version of myself I like, or like to play,more. I'm not sure it matters. The people who fed us on Monday had the largest collection of “Sambo” dolls I've ever seen. I need to see Merce Cunningham's troupe before it dissolves. I need to go to sleep.

On Suburban Malaise, Whether You Like It (Not The Malaise, Obviously) Or Not; And Google Is Not Infallible!

Elk River, MN--We've finally hit suburbia. Looking back, it was only a matter of time, but now that we're finally within commuting distance of the Twin Cities, we've run up against the kind of life I'm thankful to have never had; Elk River is a town that isn't a town, and consequently I felt very lost and bewildered. The population is double that of Brainerd or Bemidji (for those of you who value a further analogy, it's about the size of Brunswick, ME) but it's spread out and dislocated and honestly there are so many problems and different ways to demonize this kind of thing that it doesn't even feel worth it because at this point these problems have been quite thoroughly catalogued and have been for fifty years, ever since Levittown. And so I'll spare you all this sort of generalized bile.

What I will do is run through a few very specific problems and solutions that I can find in probably my longest, and certainly most independent (i.e. I've never really been by myself out here), stay in suburbia (I'm tiring of the term “suburbia” but can't really think of any others that convey the same broad contempt, and so let's make a deal--and try a little linguistic/literary experiment--that for the rest of this post, any term that I employ that is similar to “suburbia” in general meaning will take on the connotative and, fine, denotative meanings of the word “suburbia” unless I make an explicit and per-use exception; e.g. “subdivisions”-----

OK guys I'm sorry about this but just one quick side note: I've discovered a pretty egregious flaw in Google's software, which OK isn't a huge flaw or maybe even a flaw necessarily (i.e. it might actually be more efficient, but my brief foray into comp sci lends me to believe it isn't). When you're typing a new post in Blogger, the quotation marks, rather than being programmed to face the correct way based on where the spaces and characters are a la Microsoft Word and basically every other typing program ever developed, simply alternate between left and right, which if the person typing never made a mistake would be a perfectly fine way of doing it but since humans are of course fallible especially when it comes to such a recently developed mode of coordination as typing, can be quite frustrating when you need to go back and edit. It's actually kind of ridiculous because while MS Word's algorithm isn't infallible either, it's usually pretty good, and this discovery is sort of comforting given the level of obsessive perfectionism and ease-of-use that Google tends to exemplify. Of course knowing Google there's probably a valid and extremely logical reason for such a simple quotation-mark-direction algorithm in what is otherwise a not-too-simple piece of software, but I just thought that certain nerds among my readers might enjoy this.

So back to what I was saying (Ed.: have you noticed that my comments have become more and more infrequent? Yeah. Consider for a moment the fact that he controls my comments and their frequency. He's been getting sloppy--let's not let this shit slide.) Dude. Do not mix those last two metaphors because I just got an image of sliding--(Ed.: Christ, dude!)

OK. I think maybe I'm just a little sensitive about standing out because Eve and I were talking about suburbia last night and she mentioned that because it's all so similar--the places, the people, pretty much everything except the names and even those are pretty frequently interchangeable--it (A) takes serious effort to be different and (B) is even harder to be different in a significant way (a few e.'s g. to be black or gay or poor). Being a straight, white, Williams-educated, upper-middle-class male, I would expect (/would be expected? That's a question I don't want to get into.) to feel quite comfortable in these kinds of places; I don't think the point need restating that I don't (Ed.: it doesn't. It really, really doesn't.).

But. And you know there's always a but. If we don't grant, and I really don't think there's any reason to, that I am a more sensitive/thoughtful/whatthefuckever person (whether by nature or upbringing or education or experience or anything, and I suppose we could at least grant that I am more agoraphobic than your average suburbanite) than, say, the people sitting around me in Caribou Coffee (the Starbucks of the North! Not that Seattle isn't like the same latitude as here but back to the point), then we have to ponder just what it is that these people enjoy about living here. Why is the trope “I have to get out of this small town” rather than “I have to get out of this stifling atmosphere”? I'm asking this as a serious question because it does not make sense to me. Because I guess one of the main issues I have is that there is nothing here, and by that I mean that there's nothing you couldn't get somewhere else. So what is keeping people here, rather than some other suburb? How do you choose when all the choices are the same? It's almost never because your family has been here for generations (these are not old towns), so what is it? Is it really just as simple as that the city is too dangerous or expensive but you have to work there? Is that really it?

It's reasonable to assume that pretty much everyone reading this blog has given at least a passing thought to these questions (and there are literally thousands of other important and fair questions re: suburbia that I have no space in blog nor mind to ask). It's also reasonable to assume that most of you have far better answers than I could develop, or at the very least have carried these questions further than I have. It's certain that there's plenty to read about these problems, fictional, academic, “cultural”, and I'm fully aware that there's not really anything I can contribute to the discussion except by virtue of being an outsider, a suburban virgin, and by having amassed a not-insignificant amount of experience in other kinds of places but never really having experienced the American Suburb in the leisurely way I'm doing today.

In Which the Sun and My Brain Get in a Fight; And the Victor is Clear

Monticello, MN--I might have another post waiting in my journal but I don't think so. I'm pretty tired. I'm too lazy right now to recap the events of yesterday but they can be found on Eve's blog; today's events have thus far been limited to putting the kayak in the Mississippi in Sartell, MN and finishing the day eight hours and 35 miles later, here in Monticello (according to Wikipedia, this town is named literally from the Italian, “little mountain” or something, but I think we all know to whose house they were actually referring (and Jon, before you go looking this up, it's Thomas Jefferson's)). Basically the current was so strong (by the way, Sauk Rapids is the first place named “____ Rapids” to actually have rapids, and they were awesome) that I decided to go an extra eight miles past where I was planning on stopping, which would already have put me at like 27 miles which is as far as I've gone yet. So needless to say I'm pretty fried, and surprising unexhilarated. Which is why I'm going to stop about here for now. I'll write more tomorrow but this'll have to just tide you over for now. If you're bored, google “bear trampoline”; and if you've already seen it, go outside. It's a beautiful day.

In Which Nazis Dominate, But Not Quite to Their Standards

Little Falls, MN (August 23)--Went to an actual Episcopal Church for the first time in probably 6+ years because Eve was looking for a Lutheran Church (the Lutherans just in the last few days voted to allow noncelibate gays and lesbians to become ordained) but the only one we found had started service a half-hour earlier, and so we went to the Episcopal instead, and they ended up being really friendly as I guess one might expect although it is really interesting how intimidating it is to go into a public place like a church when you're more or less a foreigner, and to participate in the service etc. etc. Eve mentioned as we left that it's really too bad that the Catholic Church stopped doing services in Latin, and I have to say I agree because not only does it create a common bond (in the physical rather than spiritual realm) but it enables a foreigner to find, well, not to be blunt but to find a place of refuge and sameness in a divided and xenophobic world.

Little Falls is the home of one Charles A. Lindbergh, senator, namesake of the State Park at which we've stayed the past two nights, and father of the more well-known Charles Lindbergh. But if it can be said that sons usually take on the political and cultural prejudices of their fathers (and this tendency is even stronger in political families), then I'm not sure exactly how I feel about the adoration of LF for Mr. Lindbergh, whose stance on WWII &c. I'm extrapolating from that of his son, who (I'm not sure how widespread this knowledge is so please excuse me if I'm rehashing C.K.) so corrupted his name and reputation (but not, as will be discussed, his mythology) by actively supporting the Nazis during WW the Second and being an outspoken anti-Semite and xenophobe and general, well, asshole (General Asshole...). So it's always interesting to me to see mythology (and here I refer mostly to the aviator, not to his father, even though Eve observed that the facade to the elder's museum looks suspiciously like the wing of an airplane) fly (ha!) in the face of the mythologized one's life as a whole. And Lindbergh is a particularly dissonant figure in this regard because the act for which he is mythologized is, or at least was, inherently apolitical (as opposed to e.g. Thomas Jefferson, whose slave-holding--and occasional dalliances w/ said slaves--cannot be held in absentia from his political writings: “We hold these truths...” etc.), so that it is logical (if not morally) permissible (if not responsible) to talk about Lindbergh the Aviator as a separate entity entirely from Lindbergh the Bigot. When you take US History in high school, you get the mythology and it's true you might get a reference or two to the Lindbergh Baby stuff but (A) that situation and its cultural context can be kinda tough for HS students to really understand and (B) unless you hear about the two events at the same time it's tough to reconcile the flight with the personal complications so that you start ot create two different people whose connection is so nebulous and vague (just the name) that they are, well, two different people. Which is really too bad because Lindy is such a fantastic example of the dangers of popular mythology: Philip Roth's “The Plot Against America”, despite being one of those books that actually reading does little more good than reading its summary (i.e. it's not a great book), is a disturbingly realistic imagining of a successful 1940 Lindbergh campaign for POTUS and consequent Nazification of these good old States and if it makes you think at all makes you consider other people whose mythology has been allowed to overshadow any sort of critical reflection on their person as a whole (and I'll be honest again, it's easier for me to think of Republican politicians of whom this is true than Democrats).

In Which Fishing Is a Sport

Little Falls, MN (August 22)--Did 18 miles today, from 8 miles upstream of LF to the Blanchard Dam, 10 miles downstream. Before you reach dams (oh, there's one right in the middle of Little Falls, lending the town's name a poetic literalness) the current dries up, as one might expect, and the river widens and deepens, but the issue with the current is the one that bugs you as a paddler as you shout to the River “Come on man, carry me along!” because paddling downstream is more fun than paddling on a lake. Between the two dams I noticed a ton of fishermen, all of whom seemed to be really heavily concentrating on the task at hand, and while I will concede that there's more going on in a fisherman's mind than meets the eye (try to decipher the synecdoche in that phrase), they also seemed surlier than most fishermen (who tend, by the early afternoon, to be on their third or fourth Bud Light and to have attained its state of heightened friendliness towards strangers), and every boat featured a pair of anglers rather than one or three or four, and I was never out of earshot of a pair of intensely focused men in T-shirts and jeans and sunglasses and Twins caps watching depth finders and changing tackle and despite all this, it never crossed my mind (save for a brief joke fantasy at the beginning) that I was kayaking through the 1st Annual Royalton, MN Lions Club Bass Tournament, the HQ of which was at the landing where I got out, except that when I got there the competition still had an hour to go and so I ended up in the midst of a bunch of very bored middle-aged mustachioed pillars-of-the-community, 20 Ford F-150s (each with accompanying boat trailer), and a scoreboard with only the names of the competitors but of course no one's score yet, at which I'm sure there's a joke to make but I'm too tired to make it because haven't you heard I kayaked 18 miles and carried a 70-pound kayak 300 yards (Ed.: you're not too tired or, knowing you, drunk to proceed?)? Shut up, asshole, last I heard drunkenness or depression or both was practically a prerequisite--(Ed.: God, I know that bullshit back to front and I gotta tell you as someone intimately involved in the biz it ain't true.) In the biz? You're a figment of my imagination!

Editor's Note: here I'm going to make an actual editorial decision and just continue.

We're toying with the idea of taking a day off tomorrow

[Future] Editor's Note: We did take a day off, and the necessity of this act can be observed in the fact that he was too tired to continue.

Water, Water Everywhere

Little Falls, MN--“Slow Falls”, the guy in the coffee-supply store (for lack of a more precise term; that's pretty literally what it was, a small but still-too-big-for-its-merchandise-so-that-it-looks-like-a-drug-front store with bags of ground coffee along the walls and a few miscellaneous coffee-making devices and then the guy himself, sitting on a stool in the middle of the room with a computer in front of him) called it after I had outlined my thus-far-fruitless attempt to find a source of wireless internet in Little Falls, which looks almost as populous as Bemidji or Brainerd and is a degree of magnitude bigger than the town of Aitkin, which had I believe more than one place where one could plug in and turn on. And though I couldn't exactly disagree with him, the name isn't entirely accurate except in one respect. The one place where one could purchase brewed coffee in the downtown area, “Pete and Joy's Coffeeshop and Bakery”, had neither seating area nor Wi-Fi. After inquiring at a local business-supply-store (no shit, this town is a pretty good size and seems to be at least getting by economically, but no enterprising individual or even chain has recognized this one gap in the local marketplace), I discovered that there was in fact a library with available wireless, but after spending half an hour searching for said bibliotheque and a further fifteen minutes talking to the woman outside while we waited for it to open only to discover that the current day of the week was not, as we had both thought, Th. but in fact Fr. (and I mean come on, I've been making my way through the wilderness of northern MN for three weeks and I was the one who ended up realizing that we were waiting for something that wasn't going to happen! Although maybe she was just too absorbed in our fascinating conversation to give it a second thought.), I ended up at a Perkins. Yup. A Perkins. The lady in front of the library had told me that the Perkins a mile out of town (when I asked what a Perkins was, she replied, after shaking off her disbelief at my ignorance, “Perkins? Nationwide family restaurant?”(and at this aside those of you who also didn't know what a Perkins was can breath a sigh of relief at the sameness of our world-spheres)) had internet, and thus here I am. Typing this post up in TextEdit because the fucking wireless doesn't work. I have, however, learned that one does become an easy target of condescension when one “dines alone”, even when one is clearly just eating at the establishment in order to use its internet as evidenced by the not-at-all-microscopically-small computer set in front of oneself on the table and thus one probably doesn't want to be interrupted every five minutes to respond to inane questions to which one's answer clearly wouldn't have changed since the last time said inane questions were asked not five minutes before. And this knowledge might actually serve me pretty well, as I've been shed of my assumption, now proven erroneous, that the seeming invitation and openness to inane questions of the single diner is not exaggeration but is in fact solid, corroborated fact.

Now of course Stuart might suggest that all of this drivel provides only a neat summary of the means of posting without addressing what it is I've actually done or seen today (Ed.: should I even bother raising my objections to this straw man, or are you by this point ignoring what I say altogether?) but as you can see this is nonsense, as I've worked anecdotes and descriptions into the fabric of the post ostensibly about how I've found Internet in order to post, in various subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle ways. But for those of you thirsting to hear more mundate details about my workaday life, here they are.

It rained again last night (after the day saw more sun than rain) and the tent was, once again, soaked. I had learned from the previous night where exactly to put my sleeping pad and bag and pillow and clothes so as to best avoid puddles, and this turned out quite nicely, save for the fact that I slept probably no more than an hour because I was so stressed about avoiding the rain and keeping my sleeping bag on top of the pad so that it wouldn't get wet because if it got wet I wouldn't be able to get to sleep. There's a joke to be made there but my approach is a little too blunt for it. (Question(s): at what point does a purposeful lack of irony become, itself, ironic? And is my generation thus doomed to irony no matter what we try, or is the only possible approach one of retreat from irony rather than progress past it, which is of course an utterly depressing thought?) So we're considering buying a new tent, one that costs a little more than the $25 Eve paid for this one, which, and I have to be fair, is a pretty cool tent, and had made it dry through a few nights of rain prior to these two so we're still trying to assess the pattern.

Today Eve is paddling past Camp Ripley, a military reservation that dominates (ha) the map, and right now I'm sitting right next to three men in camo, and listening to their conversation has started me thinking about the military. I know that I, and a significant proportion of my world-sphere-sharing intellectual Ivy-or-Little-Ivy-educated Northeastern hyper-literate liberal peers, have a certain automatic distrust of the military in the abstract (and here again in this sentence the question of irony is raised but I won't address it here (Ed.: have a gander) as another segment of the power structures that dominate and regulate American life, like the police and MSM &c, and it takes a conscious effort, a sometimes dishearteningly strenuous one at that, for me to remember that in contrast to (e.g.) the police, people in the military are not, by and large, power-tripping assholes, because of course most people in the military have no power, whereas you become a news producer or cop in order to feel and exercise power. And I was reminded of this because when the three guys sat down, one of them asked the waitress if they had a gluten-free menu (they don't, but the waitress also didn't know what it was) and then they got to talking about Michael Vick in some less-than-flattering terms, and I know all this I know I know that these things shouldn't surprise me but (A) they do, whenever I'm reminded of them, and (B) I know I'll forget and in two days I will again start making assumptions like that but is B a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Everybody Called Him "Wilkes"

Brainerd, MN--In the Brainerd Public Library, resting and drying out after an 18-mile day. It was raining last night and into this morning and we were considering taking a day off, but the rain stopped and I kayaked. Six miles in, I had to portage around a dam (providing the hydropower which now constitutes probably no more than ten percent, if that, of the paper plant's electrical usage--all this just like in Grand Rapids), which, because a chain-link fence prevented Eve from assisting with the portage, provided the first opportunity for me to carry the kayak on my shoulder in the real world. At the outfitter's we all picked it up real quick just to make sure we could, but then it didn't have a whole bunch of extra stuff in and on it. I've had more fun. I did get some footage of the portage and the plant and dam, all of which probably puts me on some terrorist watch list, before kayaking through Brainerd and ending up at the State Park where we're spending the night. I'm sorry, I know this is all really lame and fact-fact-fact and probably boring as hell but I'm pretty tired and just kind of felt obligated to post. Because I suspect that most of you don't check this very often, which is of course fine because usually I can't post very often, lacking what you might call "access to the Internet" for much of the day, but I figure if I put up something dumb it just might keep you all coming back for more.

So I suppose I don't really have a whole lot to say (Ed.: I'm sure you knew this was coming, but what was the point of that?) and on the whole you might say I'm pretty wiped. And plus, a lot of the time there just isn't much to talk about oh wait wait WAIT I remember what I was thinking earlier.

So. A lot of the time there's not really much to do on the river. Sometimes it's just like going for a really long drive, except that you can sometimes tune out. So today was one of those days, after the portage and a series of bridges, I had like ten miles to do and nothing in the way of an interesting view or reason to, well, think. So I started singing, which is nothing new, I've done it a few times before. So I was singing "Rocky Raccoon" and then "Ballad of Booth" (devotees will recall a previous reference to this latter song) and then I started, well, kind of hallucinating. It started off fairly innocuously--I was singing "Ballad of Booth" and then imagined Stephen Sondheim pulling up on a boat, having heard me butchering his wonderful song, and as a matter of course (according to my mind), we got to talking. We talked about having gone to the same college, and I expressed sympathy for the difficult time he would have had as a gay Jew at Williams in the 1950s, and we discussed my introduction to his work, and I discussed "Ballad of Booth" and some other bits of Assassins, and in the course of all this discussion he had slowed his boat down to my speed, in order to talk to me, and I actually started looking over to my left where I imagined the boat would be. About halfway through these events, I was looking off to port, talking to Stephen (I never really got around to imagining what he might prefer to be called, but I suppose that by this point we were familiar enough for it to be "Stephen", and plus I can't really imagine that he would insist on "Mr. Sondheim"), and all of a sudden I hit a rock and almost tip the boat over. And not only that, but after recovering from the shock, which had jerked me out of my daydream, I went right back to the conversation as if I hadn't missed a beat. I remember that I had recognized him based on a composite of two images: the photo from his Wikipedia page and circa 1972 video of him watching Carol Channing (right?) trying and failing to record some song at like two in the morning. He was very nice, and only mildly annoyed at the fact that not only could I not remember all the words to "Ballad of Booth", I could barely remember any other song, and nothing at all from works other than Assassins (well, if West Side Story counts--he helped Lenny with the lyrics fyi--then I suppose I could always belt "America" for all the nothing to hear, as I was doing just the other day). So yeah. (Ed.:...)

Of Cows and Coffee Places

Brainerd, MN--Sitting in a coffeeshop (well actually a “coffee bar”, to refer to its name, and actually this is a pretty literal description because it serves coffee for when you just need caffeine as well as coffee for when you've had kind of a rough day but still need caffeine and not only that but it's an actual bar so when you walk in you experience a kind of momentary dislocation) (Ed.: you can't make it five words without a parenthetical? You really do hate me, don't you?) in Brainerd, a town for which Eve professes to have a certain distaste, a distaste I hesitantly shared until coming in here, and the bar and the coffee and the gift shop (that's right, it's a gift shop too--“Coco Moon Coffee Bar and Gift Shop”, I shit you not, and every single one of the last five words are literally true and most have more than one meaning) made such a weird and unique combination, not to mention the strange demographic assortment of clientele that all these northern MN coffee places seem to attract (Jonathan Raban, on his trip down the Mississippi, frequented waterfront bars, which as a Mainer I could have told him meant that he would only experience a certain kind of weirdness and hostility because booze seems to bring out the (at the very least) xenophobia that remains bubbling just under the surface the rest of the time, but we, not being raging alcoholics, seem to have chosen coffeeshops--until two hours ago I had never had booze and the Internet available to me at the same time), that it appeals to my possibly-but-probably-not erroneous assumption that even sleepy little towns have a little caffeine in them, if you know what I mean (Ed.: do you know what a little dot means? It means we have these things called sentences into which our thoughts can be organized, so that we don't confuse or annoy our readers with endless tangents. Not that you're not already confusing or annoying your readers, but it's nice to spare them from a little extra exasperation now and then.). And Brainerd isn't little, at least not for up here; it's about the same size as Bemidji, population in the 13,000s, although it's a little more spread out and a little less tourist-oriented (Bemidji had a lake; Brainerd has but a river, albeit an impressive one).

Yesterday I finally saw cows along the river, and in two different locations at that; Eve and Richard had both seen cows in the river already, and both had begun to talk about the experience as though it was something that one took for granted, and consequently (well really this was the consequence of my by-now-too-well-documented insecurities) I had begun to suspect that there were, in fact, thousands of cows lining the banks of the Upper Mississippi and through some fault of my own--stubbornness, lack of open-mindedness, lack of understanding of what cows actually looked like (along the lines of Descartes's and numerous others' quandary about how do we know we aren't simply being bedeviled when we see or describe &c.)--I had been unable to see them and was by this time feeling woefully inadequate in the being-able-to-spot-cows department, and thankfully I was vindicated not once but twice, as if I were the beneficiary of some cosmic apology (“Sorry to have taken so long; here's a little extra for the trouble”; and speaking of vindication). The first time I spotted them, I took some video, ostensibly for posterity (? or something) but really for my own peace of mind; after I had returned the camera to its deck compartment, I began to paddle, which all of a sudden frightened them and they ran away. I had never before seen a cow run--for those of you who still haven't, if they're running away from you, you suddenly understand why you don't see cows run very often: they're very slow and clumsy and almost comical (OK, comical). The next herd, just a few hundred yards down the river (but on the opposite bank; I know some of you probably have a low opinion of my intelligence and I want that group to understand that this second group was most definitely not the same as the first), was also subjected to the gaze of the bright yellow camera, but when I had finished and gone back to paddling, they did not run away. In the interest of scientific research I began to paddle very loudly and violently, and got much closer to the bank than I had with the first group, but these cows stayed put, and their stares seemed to me to reveal either a complete idiocy or a wizened, kindly pity for this poor stupid human, who so clearly did not know how to paddle a kayak in the most efficient manner possible. I'm not sure why one group of cows was so impervious to the sound and image of my paddling a bright red kayak while the other group was so sensitive--according to my (very limited) knowledge of bovine breeds, the two groups looked pretty similar--but I like to imagine that a farmer, wearying of his cows stampeding away from the river every time a boat passed (because if I scared them in a kayak, imagine what a powerboat would do), painstakingly trained his herd to merely gaze, dumbly, at whatever appeared on the river, and that after a number of failed methods (most of them comical, in my mind) he finally hired a local “cow-whisperer” or something to teach them, successfully and through a secret and possibly Montessori-influenced method passed down from generation to generation, that a boat was not a natural predator of the cow (Ed.: I don't say this enough: you're an idiot.).

Maps and Metaphysics

Aitkin, MN (August 17)-- Richard left from Brainerd and we are down to two. Tomorrow I have a 27 mile day (during which I will hopefully be adequately hydrated (Future Mac: he was)) but that's looking like the furthest anyone will have to go for a while--it's tough to say because the river is straightening (or will begin to straighten around Brainerd) so much that each map only reveals one or two days' worth of distance, and we don't like to get more than a map or two ahead of ourselves. We have 3 sets of nine maps each from the Minnesota DNR that we keep in Eve's MacBook Pro box (get it?), and being nerds we don't like to disturb the order of the maps (which on the first day of our possession of them I organized into sets) until we need to. The maps are great, running from Itasca to the Wisconsin border (at which point we will switch to a booklet of more highly detailed maps, also from the MN DNR, which go to the Iowa border--typical bureaucratic incompetence government freedom fuck terrorists sorry about that)--they're pretty good for both navigating and for locating places to camp, with only one or two egregious and potentially life-threatening mistakes of the type I've grown accustomed to seeing from the mapmaking industry. Not to cast aspersions of incompetence on all cartographers, and aware as I am of the fact that realistically the maps are technically correct even when they don't match an amateur's ground-level estimations of how the map should look, but your field's got a ways to go in respect to, you know, what your job is.

It's a favorite activity of ours to examine the next day's map every evening as the sky dims, like old sailors or river dogs or mall rats (do there exist maps of malls in portable format, and if so, do bored housewives and teenagers study them or bring them home or leave them in their car or are they (the maps or, I suppose, the people) just like so many useless brochures or business cards or other pieces of paper with colors or words but that might as well be blank? If not, I suppose that latter analogy pretty solidly falls apart.), and to bask in the warmth of knowing exactly where you will be going tomorrow, which is something that excites the spirit so long as its different than where you went today (this latter condition explaining why so many workadays lead dismal disinterested lives, and I apologize if that's mean but come on, it can't exactly be surprising at this point for someone who isn't at the moment workaday to lament the fate of those who are, as though they lack the capacity to do it themselves, and after reflection upon that last clause I think I actually have changed my mind and retract said lamentation, and if you have your workaday fate you don't need me to complain about it for you). It's a nice feeling, especially, and maybe this is contrary to the spirit of adventure, but especially when you end up following the right trail.

On the Differences, Where They Exist, Between Coast and That-Which-Isn't

Aitkin, MN--Richard is leaving later today for Minneapolis/St. Paul, and so in his honor we stayed in a motel last night (but also really to dry all of our stuff which was soaked after yesterday's downpours--during which I could feel the rain splashing through the tent a la a mist tent which is wonderful at Bonnaroo but less so in central Minnesota). Apparently earlier this weekend there was a NASCAR race in Brainerd or environs and consequently all the rooms in the area had been booked, which would have been bad news had the rain moved in a day earlier.

Going to cut this short because I'm typing it up rather than having written it up earlier in the journal, which for some reason always improves my writing, which throws another wrench into that whole business I posted yesterday but I'm not going to think about it now, I can't and I won't.

But but wait Mac hold on here a second. Aitkin's purported population (try saying that five times fast) is a shade under 2000, just about that of either Damariscotta or Newcastle. Yet Aitkin has a downtown area that I would say approximates the size of, well, at least Wiscasset, maybe even more like Waldoboro (I realize these examples are entirely useless without a detailed understanding of Midcoast Maine and that their sizes and characters can't even be experienced on the Mighty Interweb but bear with me--suffice it to say that Aitkin is bigger than its population would suggest) and I can't really figure out why. It has appeared to me for almost the entirety of this trip that the very concept of a town or village (or especially a city--there doesn't seem to be a firmly set tipping point at which a town becomes a city but it appears to be upon arrival of its first coffeehouse, by which standard, of course, the Village of Damariscotta would be a Metropolis) is quite different here, and I'm now going to work through why that might be, beginning with what, exactly, differs.

Let's begin with the smallest town I can think of (N.(B.?): size and descriptive-of-such adjectives--small, large, etc.--of these examples will be based upon populations as recorded by the 2000 U.S. Census, and while as a former employee of that organization I can attest that the methods by which its numbers are derived are sometimes highly suspect, I can only hope that the discrepancies between the real and reported numbers are more or less the same from town to town, though as an amateur statistician and, again, former employee I'm not intellectually confident of that hope's basis in reality): Ball Club, MN, given population as recalled by the author as something in the 100's (Jacobson, described by Wikipedia editor “Bkorman” as an “unincorporated community”, which I imagine to be something like the “townships” that cover most of northwest Maine, is at once too simple and too complex to be assessed by such a meager intellect and world-experience as my own, not that these other's aren't but I gotta have something to talk about). Ball Club, located at the confluence of the Mississippi and Leech Lake rivers, consists of little more than a gas station along U.S. Rte. 2 (which passes for what you could loosely call the town's “main drag” and which also bisects the campus of one “Williams College” which I suppose partly, alright mostly, explains my fondness for Ball Club, the rest being explained by the fact that when the gas station didn't stock any duct tape the lady at the register loaned me her personal supply and said I could return it “whenever” and when I did return it later that day her son was at the register and expressed absolutely no surprise when I said that she loaned it to me, and call me cynical--tough as that may be--but even I wouldn't expect such a thing to happen in my own hometown even though I might someday refer to it as “the kind of town where [such a thing] might happen”) and two or three side streets along which are placed maybe 20 or 30 depressing little houses (and I'm sorry for such a label because I'm sure most of their residents love their homes but I can't think of a way to describe them to the outside world that doesn't denigrate them (the houses, of course, not the residents) at least a little bit, and even though my readers might recognize “depressing little houses” as a subtle euphemism for “really run-down, cheaply constructed buildings scarcely bigger than a shed or a garage, the kind of buildings that, were one to spot it in a poor urban area, one might point at and shout, 'Crack den!'”, it's just the kindest way I can describe them without whoring myself to upper-middle-class white guilt) and not a single other commercial building I could spot with my tired eyes. It's quite a bit like Jefferson, ME, actually (again, an entirely unhelpful reference if you don't possess highly detailed knowledge of Lincoln County, and potentially even if you do, but I retain authorial privilege so I feel pretty good about myself) (Ed.: that was so egregious I don't even need to comment), but unlike Jefferson its sole function as a town seems to be as a gas station, like a highway rest stop, since its function as a stop (a gas station, if you will) along the Mississippi has of course eroded entirely. And because northern Minnesota, whatever its history, is not expanding in population or development at any great or even detectable rate, its status in both the present and the future is somewhat nebulous. It stands at the crossroads of yesterday's highway and today's, but today's doesn't really go anywhere and yesterday's, while it did go somewhere, is deceased, which put Ball Club in a difficult position. But what a great name for a town!

You start to wonder what might attract someone to a place like Ball Club. And I don't mean that in an absolute kind of way, because there are of course pleasures in rural MN that take experience to appreciate, experience you gain by growing up there, but what might bring an outsider? The way the Midwest was settled has given rise to an idiosyncratic stratification of communities--you get considerable permeability between its cities and those of the Coasts, but there doesn't seem to be much change in the small towns. It was settled at a rapid rate and without regard, as Eve has pointed out, for future generations, while up and down the East Coast you see development with an eye for the future. The term “the country's bread-basket” is apt not only in a simple economic sense but also in a cultural sense--the attitudes of both those that demanded settlements in the Midwest and those that settled them seem to treat the land and the settlers as servants to a function rather than as people who demanded long-lasting communities (which is of course ironic with regards to the treatment of Indians by everyone involved but this post is long enough as is), and consequently places like Ball Club don't seem to really know what to do with themselves.

Some of the larger communities, the “cities” of Grand Rapids and Bemidji and the towns of Aitkin, do seem to have been in a continuing process of reinvigoration and reinvention, the transition from function to form, as the understanding of a more or less self-sufficient community has developed. And this creates an odd conundrum, as the old mantras of development and growth and settlement has merged into, well, settled, and the communities have to deal with what it means to be a functioning community for itself rather than for the cities or the East Coast (the West Coast is of course a whole other story). And they call soda “pop”! Isn't that adorable?

And of course none of this is a problem as long as freedom of movement and growth and, if so desired, contraction and so on is maintained but that's always something to be watchful for because the consequences can be so disastrous, as the non-Indian residents of communities like Ball Club must know so well after seeing what a century and a half of forced stagnation on Leech Lake Reservation has done. Although I wonder just how much interaction there has been, or is now, between those outside the reservation and those on it, even between Indians on and off the reservation, and particularly whether those lessons have been learned. But that question is too heavy for what is already a heavy and mournful day as Richard leaves us, to seclude himself in the warm and dusty (in my mind) archives of the Minnesota Historical Society like an incommunicado monk. We're driving him down to Brainerd later today, where he'll catch a bus and we'll get our first glimpse of the city which is in my mind more closely linked with Paul Bunyan because I'm not sure I ever heard of Bemidji when I was a kid and because Brainerd is such a weird name--you'd think it would imply a kind of nerdiness but in fact it seems to do just the opposite, at least to my ears.

Of Small Towns, Flags, and the Writing Ethos, and Whether the Latter Applies to Blogs and Other Public Journals

Palisade, MN--Hardly slept a wink last night, as they say, and consequences include being still partly tired and getting to feel a damp corner of my pillow grow and grow until by 4 or 5 a.m. the whole thing was soaked. This is the kind of camping they don't show you in the movies (Ed./Stuart: it's the only kind of camping they show you in the movies!). Rain has finally let, more or less, but there's no sun yet and so we're not sure what to do today quite yet, as we really don't want to transport two waterlogged tents. So I guess we'll see.

Palisade is the kind of small town that makes people long to live in a mythological small town. Everyone knows everyone, people have regular meals at the cafe, and there's just enough variety downtown to keep you interested (sick of the cafe? Go to Kelly's Kitchen. Sick of Kelly's? Go to the cafe.), etc, etc, I think this town's hiding something. Although if they were, it wouldn't be too much extra trouble to hide some of the other unpleasant stuff, so they're probably clear. Eve had our waitress last night (at Kelly's, just in case you needed to know) pegged as gay but I think she was just Minnesotan (Ed./Stuart: you didn't think you were going to slip that one by me, did you? I may not know “lie” from “lay” but I'm an astute spotter of what won't fly, shall we say, politically.). Saw my first Confederate flag of the trip (I gotta be honest, I was expecting some sooner in these Coleman Counties (the company or the politician, either one works)) in the rear window of a beat-up but surprisingly fuel-efficient-looking compact--usually Northerners who identify with the Southern Rebellion (incidentally, for a while yesterday I was singing “Ballad of Booth” at the top of my lungs) tend to use fuel rather liberally--what follows is a conjecture--in order to show up all those paternalistic environmentalists as well as those high-credit-card-bill-hating parents (who also happen to be paternalistic). It was a little odd seeing one on a car that looked to get well over 30 mpg.

The other night I was thinking about something my mom said to me about processes of absorption and creation, that you need to have stuff ot absorb before you can create something, and I'm wondering if its somehow counter(-?)productive to be too, well, fancy with what I write so I don't interrupt the absorptive process. But the I thought, well that's just about the stupidest idea I've ever had, so it's all good now. Of course you're supposed to record as you absorb because you should be recording all the time. Besides, recording what you think is the most secure way of being able to look back and say, yup, I was wrong about that and that and that and etc etc. And just talking and thinking about the things you experience seems to me to be a sure way to get a grip on those things before they power some sort of misguided endeavor. I want my work to have an adequate intelligence so it doesn't stumble blindly through the wilderness.

But does keeping a blog or journal (I'm aware of the discrepancies, Stu, but my point applies to both, I think) somehow cheapen what is recorded (never mind, it applies only to the blog)? When you exhibit your writing, well, when you write with the awareness of its potentially being exhibited, does it change what you write? And I don't (well, first I'll just say I think the answer is probably yes and the real problem is if it matters) mean just little asides to people you know are reading, I mean do you anticipate problems and search out solutions and censor and edit and do you just write under a more critical eye? Well but isn't all writing naturally aware that it may one day somewhere be read? Can writer and reader be one and the same and both equally effective?

I'm sorry if this seems academic or just one of those phases that people go through and those of you who've been through it and answered the questions already are just waiting for me to hurry the hell up and get to the other side (this is the kind of thought you have when you're around smart older people all the time and are intellectually insecure to begin with), but I need to think through it. And here again the question is raised: would this paragraph have been written if I was conceiving of this journal as entirely private, For My Eyes Only?

And I have to say yes. Yes, absolutely (or as absolutely as I feel comfortable answering, which isn't terribly absolute in any objective kind of way but relatively, for me, is pretty strong). Not just because as I write I can feel the disembodied eyes of my audience nearing and fading, sometimes into nothingness and something close enough to see faces (hi Bevin! Hi Grace!... Grace?), but because, well, first because I can't imagine what would be different if I was writing just for myself (which might just be my own intellectual weakness but shut it down, Mac, shut that insecurity down) but mostly because I am a critical reader already. I read with an eye for what is wrong and right and new and interesting and scrap that which needs to be scrapped, and not just when I pause but even as the pen flickers across the page. And Faulkner says that a young writer must learn all the mythology and how to be a critic (godawful paraphrase, that) and “learning it, forget it forever” but that's a trick I've not yet learned, hence the editor. Because there is no such thing as writing for yourself, it's a fool's errand, and writing for an audience, however small, is, well I suppose it's what writing is for, but it makes the writing better, too. Because you edit. You add and excise and omit entirely. You listen and hear. We hear our very thoughts and make them poetic even if we know they'll never be spoken or written.

Editor's (Stuart's, too, I suppose, but it's time to stop that charade) Note: OK that was lovely, but I do believe it's time to exercise those powers and let's put it to bed, sleepyhead.

What Went Wrong Today And Why It's My Subconscious's Fault

Palisade, MN (August 15)--Sorry I haven't been posting since Grand Rapids; we've been going through Real America where they simply won't stand for coffeeshops or the Internet, where “Cafe” means Avoid Eating Here At All Costs. Did 25 miles today after Eve did 30 yesterday (should I just have said that we averaged 27.5 over the last two days?) and am consequently wiped. In the future, 25-30 miles will be nearing the top of our per diem mileage, due to both physical strain and the simple fact that as we re-enter civilization, stopping points will become closer together, but today I did learn that one way to make such trips more difficult than necessary is to forget to (A) eat breakfast and (B) put your water bottles in the kayak. Particularly B. Particularly particularly if your food for the day consists of Wal-Mart Trail Mix, which isn't as bad as you might think (whether by law or the goodness of their hearts--and one has to assume it's the former--the folks at Sam's Choice have indicated the countries of origin for the nute in the gorp) (Ed.: thanks for not listing them.) (Me: thanks for reminding me!) (Ed.: I'm going to cut you off in order to express dismay over Blogger's lack of footnote or endnote functionality because I want your words as far from human eyes as possible. Continue, then, but not about nuts.) but absolutely does contain far more sodium than anyone could ever want or need. And kids, drink water--it makes the world go round (I seem to remember a kids' song expressing something like “booze makes the world go round” but I wasn't a terrifically attentive seven-year-old and also didn't know what “booze” was so I assumed it was some sort of urban(e) term for “juice”, which obviously does make the world go round, and thinking about it now I imagine I must have conflated the lyrics of two different songs, one warning of the dangers of alcohol abuse and the other extolling the virtues of love (?) or, potentially, juice, but I can only hope that my misreading of the song(s) hasn't penetrated too deeply into my subconscious and doomed me to alcoholism the way sinners get doomed to hell)(Ed.: are you drunk right now, jackass?). No, I'm not, and why you gotta be so contentious all the time? That wasn't even a productive comment! You're an editor, edit your own damn comments too! Christ! (Ed.: it's your own damn fault for not drinking any water all day, and not to mention it's starting to look like my name is “Ed“ and I've always despised that name, so from now on I'd like to be “Stuart”, which isn't my real name either but I've always wished it was.) Stu, I ain't your goddamn therapist.

So anyway I've been guzzling water since I got out. The last seven or eight miles are kind of hazy, and I mean that I clearly recall experiencing them in a hazy kind of way, and I'm not sure if this was the effect of dehydration or just the sheer mileage; I have to think it's obviously some of both. What was really troubling me as I paddled, though, was not being sure if it was safer to go quickly, exhausting myself but reaching a source of water earlier, or to take my time, conserving energy but going without water for longer. Eve pointed out the analogy of a car (in which scenario it's more efficient to go slower, just in case you didn't know) but also pointed out the analogy's clear irrelevance (Ed./Stuart: that comment's irrelevant.) (you're irrelevant you pompous jackass no, no, no I won't perpetuate the anger), but I don't plan on doing it again so it doesn't really matter. I suppose it's just a theoretical exercise (Jon, do you know? Will they teach you this in med school along with that cure for AIDS that the government's withholding to punish the wicked and the damn'd?).

A Variety of Thoughts, Most Of Which Bear Little Relationship to the River

Jacobson, MN (August 13)--In the Jacobson convenience store (/liquor store/USPS Contract Unit--there is literally just one commercial building in this town) there is a “Wall of Fame” dedicated to the Polaroided exploits of the town's hunting and fishing contingent--mostly deer, a few pike and walleyes, and, because these towns all seem to be participating in a large-scale, clandestine, never-ending Outdoorsman's Championship, three black bears, catalogued by weight (mean 200 lbs., which is, btw, about the average for the N. American male homo sapiens). One of the ostensible bear-slayers (somehow no one ever seems to self-identify as a “deerslayer”) looked barely old enough to drive a car, a fact which simultaneously impressed and frightened me. I've heard that bears aren't a problem problem up here unless you're an idiot or the unluckiest person in the world.

Speaking of bad luck, I ended up in a fit of giggles thinking about the thoroughly unnecessary, at least in terms of narrative, e-mail exchange in Infinite Jest between an injured laborer and his insurance company, revealing one of the funniest hard-luck stories I've ever heard (not sure if DFW invented it straight-up but at the very least I've never heard it anywhere else, although that might have more to do with the circles in which I run than with the story's providence): a roofer finishes a job with 600 lbs of supplies left over and rigs a pulley system to get them down 3 stories. He ties a rope to the ground, goes up and loads the crate, and goes back down to lower the crate down slowly; he unties the rope but, himself weighing only 200 lbs, is pulled rapidly skyward, meeting the crate halfway and breaking a couple bones, and continuing up to the roof. He lodges his fingers in the pulley but the crate has hit bottom and spilled its contents so that its weight drops precipitously, so back down he goes. He hits the crate again on the way down and then the ground. Lying there on his back, he finally lets go of the rope only to see the crate shooting down towards him. It's funnier in the book so go look it up yourself, jerk.

There were two mosquitoes and a fly in the tent last night. I turned on my headlamp and the fly went completely out of its fucking skull (exo-skull (-eton?)? Ha.), following the light, which made it an easy kill. The first mosquito, attracted by the commotion or possibly the smell of flesh, made its way up to where I was, which also made it very easy to dispose of (despite the fact that while you can just kind of slap a fly out of the air and render it immobile, a mosquito takes a one-sided slap the way a womanizer takes a slap to the face--just the cost of doing business), but the second stayed close enough to be audible but out of sight. I lay on my back for probably 15 minutes, hand on my headlamp, ready to turn it on should I hear the scoundrel approach. It never did. Its whereabouts are currently unknown by all but God. And I suppose the mosquito but that opens up the animal-consciousness bag of worms (can of worms? I like my worms in a bag, thank you.).

Later That Day

The ballpoint pen is a brilliant invention. It's those innovations that simplify processes and mechanisms and the order of things in the world that I admire most, and I think most people, were they to consider it if they didn't already, would agree. One of my favorite examples is that of the silo. Here we are, with a limited amount of land from which we need to extract the greatest amount of crops possible if we are to earn a living, but here too is the necessity of storing large quantities of harvest, and feed for the animals, and it would seem that these requirements put us at a kind of impasse, for both together require more space than the plot allows. What shall we do. We will build... up. It transcends the two-dimensionality that is the single most noticeable facet of farmland and introduces a new possibility. The silo! Think of it! There are fewer silos in these areas of Minnesota than most lands of comparable history and geography, but I'm inclined to give MN the benefit of the doubt and just imagine that fact to be due not to the stubborn personality, and adherence to Old World habits, of German and Scandinavian settlers, who are more inclined to bear problems (ha, bear problems) stoically than to look for solutions, but rather to the prevalence of trees. Minnesota has lots of trees (more now than a century ago, actually, this being the result of several decades of perverse incentives which were ostensibly to replenish lumbering-stripped forests and create wind barriers to keep soil intact, but which in fact created more than a few “tree farmers”, who were in practice if not belief, and if only for economic reasons, the first environmentalists; but that, as I seem so fond of saying, is another story (Ed.: maybe you should keep those “other stories” to yourself from now on and leave the heavy lifting to someone smart, OK?)), often in places where one doesn't expect trees, and they impart the land with the verticality lacking in other farmlands. Then again, maybe the silo is just a primitive agrarian phallus in a landscape otherwise devoid of phallic symbols (which might explain why MN, home of trees and Paul Bunyan and timber “cruisers”, doesn't need any silos).

There are others, too. I'd count the printing press despite the objections of plenty of reasonable people, and despite its obviously mechanical nature (besides, even the most complicated press could never reach the heights of that mastery of mechanical efficiency, the human body, or even the hand alone), for just re-thining the way of applying ink to paper.

Honestly now. I don't mean to be nerdy or obsessive, but I could go on and on about silos. Because that moment of clarity is what drives us to pursue questions without answers, to be that person that looks at the problem and says, “Why not just build up?”

Although, reconsidering now, in all likelihood the silo thing wasn't arrived at suddenly or serendipitously or in a flash of inspiration, but was rather developed slowly as first the farmers piled extra stuff as high as it would go, then built four walls around it so they could pile it higher, and of course from there it's just a short step to the silo as we know it. But hey, I'm not going to let mere facts get in the way of a good story or even, especially, an Irreducible Truth; sometimes you just need to build up.

A Quick One

Jacobson, MN (August 12)--Really hot and humid on land today, although as some of you will know, rivers never get too hot or cold as far as daily fluctuations go, so I was quite comfy out there while Richard and Eve sweated it out on land. Did 20 miles today and, while not exactly going to jump back on the River and go another 20, don't feel too much the worse for wear, which bodes will as we're trying to beef up our daily average so that Eve gets to NOLA by XMAS. It's the furthest we've done so far, but we're trying to get up to a 20-a-day routine so bully for us, I guess.

The River's about 50-7o ft wide here, subject of course to local variances of up to 35, these figures not being sufficient, I don't think, to generate any meaningful statistics e.g. standard deviation but I've got the most important and useful figures right here in my noggin (and your ”indeterminant causality right here...)(Ed.: ... dude. For real.).

Ran into a thirty-something couple with various tattoos and, combined, more piercings than natural orifices (Ed.: you OK? DO I need to find you the antidote to something? They don't need to hear that.). I came up behind them, as I am athletically built and can out-row any other asshole on this here River, and was almost past them when I noticed a large chocolate lab staring at me. From the canoe. I was impressed. But luckily I restrained myself from shouting “Here, boy!” and splashing and waving. That would have been mean. Plus he (the guy, not the dog) looked likely to be carrying a gun. Which would of course have completely negated my sports-car kayak.

Editor's Note: The following was the subject of much editorial debate, but in the interest of openness I'm going to allow a stanza and a half.

Upon a river deep and wide
(Well, not that wide, as I've implied,
It also isn't very deep,
At most ten feet), with banks quite steep,
I passed beside a small canoe;
And here I must relate to you
That my demeanor as I row
Can give a sense of “told-you-so”.
If that seems blunt, let me say this:
Helen Keller couldn't miss
The arrogant, entitled way
I rowed upon this peaceful day.

One man, one woman, both engraved
With hearts and serpents, to me waved
And, turning to each other, laughed
Enough to make me think I'd gaffed.

Rivers

Grand Rapids, MN--Showered and clean and feeling about as better as could be expected. Motel smells funny--clean but not sterile, but still off somehow, in keeping with the furnishings, which defy all logic and laws of physics by remaining upright. Even up here, where the river is small enough that towns haven't leveed it and turned it out and over and away, our statement of purpose is usually received with ever-so-slightly (this is Minnesota Nice we're talking about) quizzical expressions, polite but just not understanding why or what could be so special about this river. (In the stuff we've been reading about other, similar trips, the same experience is related.) It's especially jarring for myself, I think, having worked on a river in a place where the water still matters, not just in an economic or even mythological way but in a very real, immediate and even visceral way. In Damariscotta the river is real and palpable, rarely at the front of your mind but never far away; in Grand Rapids it requires reminders. Several possible explanations, in descending order of simplicity and therefore probable truthfulness (hopefully-obvious caveat: of course I'd be surprised if someone was taking a month to kayak the Damariscotta--it's like 19 miles long):

1) that the Damariscotta is tidal and therefore changes every time you see it, while the Mississippi is relatively static (although I've yet to see what kind of difference water levels make--ours have been universally low)--plus it's more in tune with the earth and the tides;

2) that in Damariscotta you know someone who works on the river; here, no one works on the river;

All of a sudden this whole idea feels very silly; I've only been at this for eleven days, what do I know? Where's that blasted editor? (Ed.: blasted? Are you your mildly autistic 13-year-old self going through your arcanisms phase again? Bloody Christ!)

But I suppose that's what a blog is for, right? You have tons of people who can all comment and give you editorial advice and direction! (Right? If I'm deluding myself here--which is exceedingly likely, actually00and no one is reading who doesn't have an obligation to, I might just start crying myself to sleep at night. Again. Guys, I've made so much progress recently...)

Editor's Note: Guys, that last ellipse was mine. I don't want to let this turn into a self-indulgent postmodern clusterfuck, as he seems to. He's just failing to understand that even in a journal-cum-blog, certain editorial imperatives must be respected. So I'm cutting him off for the night. If he wants to cry himself to sleep, there's a liquor store right across the road and its clerks would I'm sure be quite happy to assist, but I'm already annoyed at myself for letting him go on too long in previous entries (I'm sure you can all think of several examples) and I'm putting a stop to it. Objections will be heard but, to a one, cursorily dismissed.

Fuck off. I have things to say and I'll say 'em, dammit. What kind of deep malaise is signaled by a complete inability to even finish a simple line of thinking before going off on a, well, a “self-indulgent postmodern you-know-what”? I really need to know! Guys, please!

Post-Script--I've set up an email account, to handle what I'm sure will be a voluminous heap of complaints, suggestions, and other correspondences, at macsriverblog@gmail.com.

Post-Script The Second--The more astute of you will no doubt have already gathered that the above email address is a complete fabrication, and any correspondence sent in that direction will never reach anyone associated with this blog. Toodles.

Lessons: in History, Literature, and Wilderness Life

Schoolcraft State Park, MN--Henry Schoolcraft, for those of you who haven't been paying attention to every word I've written, was the upstanding gentleman who discovered (i.e. was led by his Ojibwe brother-in-law to) the source of the Mississippi--which, by the way, for a variety of geological and ecological reasons should by all rights be high in the Rockies, as the Loser Miss. should really have taken the name of the Missouri but by a few historical accidents is thought to be a continuation of the Upper Miss. instead (two asides: first, that all these names would naturally be different if they were more accurate but presumably you all know what I'm talking about; and second, the main historical accident, which I find fascinating, is that settlers moving west to the Mississippi wanted a nice clear longitudinal border, and that the Missouri's path led into the Great Unknown). So Mr. Schoolcraft, having been to the Headwaters a few times before on expeditions led by other white men ("led" obviously used loosely) whose names are scattered around these parts, named the source and is memorialized with surprising scarcity, given his historical significance. He was also, reports indicate, a halfway-decent human being as far as Indian relations went (ha), which was, needless to say (ed.: so why are you saying it?), pretty rare. But enough historical bollywash.

We seem to have entered Mosquito Lands (no commentators, so far as I know, have yet acknowledged that while we whites did certainly steal this land from the Indians they, in turn, most definitely had thieved it themselves, from the mosquitoes) after a run of good luck as far a pests are concerned. Eve mentioned this morning that she felt like something changed overnight, that she's adjusted to the fact that this is what her life will be like for four months. Kayak, read, write, camp, post, sleep, drive, explore.

Sat here for a few minutes thinking about what to write next. (I'm writing extensively in a journal and just typing it up quickly when we go to cafes.) All I could come up with was either polemical odds and ends or these stupid "reflections" (read: depressive cliches, i.e. "why do we dread the future?"). I'm very tired despite sleeping very extensively. We're like old people: bed by ten, up at seven. Yet I don't think, up until maybe a few minutes ago, this inerascible fatigue had affected either of the two things I'm trying to do on this trip--kayak and write. I'm just really tired in the downtime (and there is plenty of it) and perk up immediately when my mind or body or both are called into action. But I'm not actively thinking, at least not creatively, all the time--reflecting is of course a different beast altogether. Then again, maybe it's just because I've been reading Orwell and WCW (we do a lot of reading, and probably would even if we weren't all so bookish) and, love them as I might, neither is the most imaginative writer. They solve puzzles but don't often create them. And where's my damn editor? I miss him.

Someone had left a fire just barely going in the fire pit. It just flared up and I dumped water all over it. It felt good, having that kind of power, creating sound and steam where there was none.

Haven't showered in about a week and have worn pretty much the same clothes for even longer. Smell not too bad, considering, but flies beg to differ. (Ed.: see what you mean re: Orwell.)

Reflections on Dylan and, Because I Seem To Be the Focus of this Blog, Myself (I've Forgotten the Rules for Capit(a/o?)lizing Titles)

Grand Rapids, MN--Just left the town of Hibbing, MN. Philistine? Don't worry, that's just what I'm here for (ed.: he didn't remember either). Hibbing is the town in which one Robert Zimmerman was raised (Jon, I swear to God, if you don't know who that is I'll just stop trying). It's a mining town which at some point in the mid-20th C. was the richest place in the world per capita. The harder they come, the harder they fall. Maybe it's because it's a Sunday but we couldn't find a cafe in Hibbing (pop. 18,000, though who knows how recent that statistic is) and had to retreat to the relative glamour and urbanity of Grand Rapids (pop. 7,700). But of course, the town's wealth has left traces, nowhere more evident than in its high school, an enormous brick-and-granite testament to the fact that towns built on exhaustible resources (coal, iron, oil, etc.) never have any idea that opulence will seem tacky in 50 years when the mines shut down and the town fades into a prolonged death throe.

Of course, that said, this is the town from which Bobby D. emerged, and Eve has this fascinating idea that his career has essentially been one long trip down the River, and I'll tell you, being up here the connection between folk music/low-grade Marxism/early (student) stuff and the place from which it emerged seems pretty obvious. I don't know, it just seems like the right cultural climate in which a really literate, sensitive kid could become Dylan, and let us not forget that most of Young Bob's cited influences were European (save W. Guthrie but that's another story), and that he left Hibbing for the Twin Cities and, when that still proved too close, for NYC, and these facts plus the reaction of another literate youth from another small town (ed.: you pompous, egotistical prick, did you just compare yourself to Bob Dylan?)(no, I drew connections between myself and the Man, connections anyone could have observed) towards the town of Hibbing seem pretty strongly to suggest an approaching-irresistible urge to Get The Hell Outta There, which manifests pretty clearly through all of Big D's work in an aggressive cosmopolitanism we've all noticed, even if it's nothing to hold against him. Which all goes to say, I guess, that we shouldn't ever be surprised at the strangely humble or remote beginnings of anyone because those who strive against dominant local culture can not only attain but do in fact frequently surpass the worldliness and political awareness and musical/poetic/artistic acumen of their more “well-schooled” contemporaries because their roots force them to overextend. All of which is, I suppose, an obvious point (ed.: what a sneaky little f***ing escape route, say something barely worth repeating and cover your tracks with an acknowledgment to the same, you slimy, grotesque little weasel), but I'm just sick to death of the mythology that goes along with the story, the background, all of which is obviously important but he's not a fucking God, you know, he's a person and consequently reacts to certain situations and stimuli in entirely logical and even dare I say typical or predictable ways.

It might be easy to construe this, if you know me well and are therefore aware of just how egotistical/self-aware/narcissistic I am (take your pick, and choose not according to your fondness for me--for say what you will, I must have a couple of admirable qualities to offset all the crap, but then again I've taken a post about Bob Dylan and turned it into one pretty much entirely about myself and is this the nature of the Internet and the Democratization of Creation writ large or am I proselytizing unnecessarily?--but according to your heart's honest opinion), as a sort of preemption of any sort of talk this way about myself. This is most probably true (ed.: actually, despite that sounding like a sneaky way of putting it he's actually being pretty honest, because these posts are a kind of free-form stream-of-consciousness thing and who the hell knows where any of this stuff actually originates deep in his murky mind's recesses?), but I really don't mean it as any kind of self-important analysis but more as a way of saying that the experiences of young men and women in small towns are widely disparate. Robert Zimmerman was the son of a Jewish couple who worked in the town, not in the mine. I am not the child of poor coastal fishermen but rather a hyper-literate couple who for reasons I've actually never really understood chose to settle in couple of small Maine towns, and not only that but the small Maine town in which I went to high school (pop. <2,000) had a pretty sizable artistic subculture which, and here again I'm assuming and generalizing, I suppose nearly all small towns do. “Important” people emerge from everywhere for all different kinds of reasons, so stop the mythology! And I think I must stop this blog post too for it is becoming a bit difficult to control, and the only method I know of controlling an approaching-unstoppable force is to stop it before it gets actually-unstoppable, which is of course only useful in hindsight and on the Internet.

Editor's note: Actually, I don't have much to say; that was a pretty fun ride through a tired rower's mental calisthenics.

Complaints and Resolutions

Grand Rapids, MN--Sitting in a cafe in Grand Rapids, which just might be the single most depressing symbol of American industry's fading glory I have ever seen (which fact also points to a rather sheltered East Coast upbringing, but that's another story). It also happens to be Judy Garland's birthplace (ed.: big f***ing deal). Kayaked 16.5 miles today along another similarly depressing stretch of wetland, with nowhere to pull out and take a break, and so by the fourth hour I was exhausted but just wanted to get there and be done with it, you know, and when I got there I realized all my stuff and all the food were in the car with Eve and Richard in G.R., OK but then Eve texts me asking if she should come and bring me to G.R. and so it's all pretty much good (plus I slept for a little while before she got to camp). K so now that I've completed the Day's Redundancy of telling y'all what I did today (I saw an otter!--three, actually!) I can commence with the much more exciting task of describing my Thoughts: For there was ne'er a knave who tried/To keep his readers satisfied (or: don't f*** with this sh** y'all). (Also, a knave is a bad guy, right?)

What I learned today (for isn't all of life just one cosmic schooling of one's puny ass?):

1) Don't kayak 17 miles and then expect your writing to be cheery or comprehensible.

2) Birds following migratory patterns are unbelievably stupid (South south south south south river south south south) and should therefore be killed and devoured with great haste; I'm looking at you, C. Geese.

3) No matter how much you complain to the air/a kayak/God, the air/the kayak/God isn't listening, and it just makes you sound like a crazy person.

4) I haven't yet learned if flies or mosquitoes only operate within a certain radius or if they're just roamers, and I suppose honestly it wouldn't matter if I had--my strategy is still to just kill the whole f***ing lot of 'em (ed.: my, he sure is surly today, isn't he?).

Fuck! I need a new editor. This one's a replacement (the last one came down with swine flu and is using it as emotional blackmail, which is something I love about him but right now it's killing me) and he's a Bible-Belt closet case or something and he always speaks in proverbs (ed.: I sure as heck do not! What's a closet case?).

That's enough insight for today, folks: any more and it's just voyeurism.

Ants and Rants (No Pants; Well, Pants On, I Suppose, But No Important Pants

Cass Lake, MN, Chippewa Nat'l. Forest (which comes first?: the question over which a war has been fought)--Walked to and from brushing teeth with headphones on because too lazy to remove them. Passed older woman who, though she said and revealed nothing, probably imagined me one of those horrific hulking hooligan hipsterish types (it helps that I haven't shaven in long enough for the effect to seem measuredly scruffy), with no respect for the wonder of Nature (capitalized N hers, not mine) and beholden to electronics to a Quite Lamentable Degree, and isn't it a shame his parents didn't teach him better to appreciate the joys of being Away From It All (these latter capitals, of course, decidedly mine). And so in response I formulated--perhaps formulated is the wrong word, for I didn't compose it so much as let it flow to the tip of my tongue where it halted, as she was on a bike and had long since passed by, and of course she didn't actually do anything, and for all I know was far too wise to fall for all that shit about Kids These Days (caps society's), and to actually realize what I was imagining would have been in very poor taste indeed--a rant, not angry so much as bemusedly annoyed, perturbed I suppose with dashes of pretension and smugness (perhaps she was right after all) thrown in. Would you like to hear it? I should think so (regrettably, it's not in meter--that's a task for another time). This is roughly paraphrased, of course, since in the course of composing longhand the preceding few run-on sentences and Entirely Frivolous Clauses I've forgotten exactly what I thought:

So, you think that by not opening my ears to the sounds of Nature I am missing out on some integral part of the Experience? Well, let me put it to you this way: As humans we are of course animal and, so, Natural but we al possess certain aspirations of course to be more than our natural bodies, to dominate and remake Nature according to our desires, true, but also in the realms of culture and art which should be, I'm sure you will agree, much more along the lines of balance between these basic animal instincts and the Dominating Urge than they tend to actually really be. Well, I happen to be a musician (ed.: isn't everybody?), and I happen to be striving toward just that balance, and also by the way "electronics" only describe means, not ends in themselves,

Editor's Note: Here the correspondent stopped. The reason is unclear: did he run out of ideas? Did his pen run dry? Was he trampled by a Rhinoceros? We can only hope so...

Hubris Is My Downfall, and I Fall Down

Bemidji, MN--So close to perfection but thwarted as usual: a man arrives at a lakefront in a kayak. When he gets out, you ask him why he is so wet--the kayak, you observe, is as dry as could be. Did he tip over in the kayak? No, he says. So what happened?

The first hour and a half was perfection. I started off where Eve had ended her adventure two days ago, where the route designation changes to "scenic" (from "wild"), and where the paddling gets significantly easier. I'd marked out 12.5 RMs, from there to Bemidji; the first seven were beautiful and simple, the paddling effortless, reserved, but not lazy. At around seven RMs in, I passed under a bridge with an adjacent river level gauge. The gauge ranged from 2-9 ft, but today the water was under 2, I'd say 1 foot 9 inches, not even deep enough to register. OK, I thought, no problem so far; it's been shallow, sure, but I'm in a boat built for shallow water--it'll be fine.

Around the next bend, however, I entered Dead Tree Alley, if the Alley was five miles long. Dead trees were everywhere--I went over them, under them, the the left and right of them. It was an obstacle course. But there were only two that require my ass and the kayak to separate, and even then only for a short while. They were only a few hundred yards apart--I negotiated the first one successfully, getting out (luckily here the bottom is sand instead of mud), pulling the kayak under the obstruction, and getting back in. No problem. I reached the second, cursed (understand, there were prob. over 100 trees obstructing most or all of the river at various heights, but there was almost always a path through), got out, and began to pull the kayak over the log. It was almost clear when it began to tip over; I leapt to keep it righted, and almost succeeded, allowing just a little water into the seat cavity, but in doing so plonked myself down in the Mississippi up to my navel. Muttering obscenities, I climbed back into the boat and continued on, arriving on the shores of Lake Bemidji dampened but in good spirits.

Currently in a different, slightly less hip cafe in Bemidji (ed: he's actually currently in the library, but I'll let it slide), writing in the journal cause I left my power cord at the camp and some kid is hogging the communal computer. Might go to the library (ed: he did). I'll let y'all know (ed: what an asshole).

New Beginnings

Lake Bemidji State Park, MN--Up here at Lake Bemidji SP, watching dishes dry. Dry, little friends, for we will be needing you again tomorrow! You must know this!

I hereby take back all the bad stuff I said about state parks in general. One must never generalize--it is a disgusting peasant habit, unsuitable for the upper classes and even devout bourgeoisie such as ourselves, particularly should we aspire to the upper class. This campsite is so exquisite, I just want to bottle it up or maybe take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant (I can only hope that last suggestion succumbs to subsequent editing, of which I'm sure lots is going to occur). It's practically deserted, which in contrast to Itasca is an excellent start, and though the design is similar it's more spacious, less economic in its administration of space and geometric similarity. I'm sure it doesn't hurt that the weather is nice.

Ouldshay avehay ternetinhay orfay ethay (Ihay oday ymay igpay atinlay ybay onemephay, otnay etterlay) extnay ewfay aysday. Luspay onephay ervicesay. Oday uzzlespay. Ivelay.

Thoughts and a Poem

Bemidji, MN--Sitting in a very hip cafe in downtown Bemidji, the “First City on the Mississippi”, which slogan clearly chosen for its assonance and alliteration rather than for its truthfulness or powerful enticement of outsiders (“First City” can mean three things: geographically first (by which def. Bemidji presumably chose said phrase); chronologically/historically first (probably NOLA but I actually don't know); and culturally/of importance (most probably a tie between NOLA and SLMO (St. Louis, not slo-mo, you N/neanderthals (I know it's “n” most of the time, but one must make sure of these things so as not to offend))--I think generally most of us would agree--nay, assume--the use and prevalence of the latter two meanings). But enough, editorially-slack Mac; return to business.

A POEM

I'm in this coffeeshop along
The banks of River great and strong;
My latte is a bit too bald
But better that than apt to scald.
I write this post in meter for
A reason which evades my mind
But never fear; I'm never more
Pretentious than a subtle shrine.

The tale of yesterday I will
Relate at present; but now still
I am recovering from such
A fright'ning day; it was too much.
Nay, nay! you say; continue on,
It can't have really been that bad.
I guess you're right--for here we don
A Cautious Cap; a lesson had.

I started out on River blue,
Then switched with Eve; at ten to two
We planned to meet at old Pine Point--
'Twas a decision made in joint.
Two came and went, then it was three
(These times, not people, as you know),
And Richard said that maybe we
Should worry if Eve didn't show.

I drove to where we'd last her seen
A good ways back, and in the mean-
Time Richard stayed, with phone in hand,
To call me should Beglarian land.
Eventually I get a ring:
It's Richard calling from the site!
Eve has been found at last, missing
The place--she could have gone all night.

She'd meant to row four miles hence;
But, having missed us, it made sense
To go a bit further along
Because the current wasn't strong.
At fourteen miles past the place
We'd planned to meet, she came ashore,
Flagged down a car with sprightly grace,
And R and I would wait no more.

And so a Super 8 we chose
As suitable for our repose;
For such a day, so long and glum,
Must be rewarded--so say some.
To dine we went to Applebee's
And beer was had--it wasn't tough
To sleep last night. Now if you please,
I think this poem's had enough.

What Happened

Coffee Pot Landing, August 2--What happened was this: Richard started out this morning. I biked to the first crossing, five miles in, where I saw him pass 1.5 hours after starting. I went to the second crossing, but there was nowhere to wait, so I went to the third instead. Eve arrived and we waited. And waited. Eventually a car drove up behind us and the driver told us our friend was waiting at the previous crossing. He had been fine until a little ways after the second crossing, but there was a fork and he didn't know which way to go, so he tried both ways, which both ran out, so he turned around and went back, exhausted, drenched, and caked in knee-deep Mississippi Mud. I decided I wanted to try anyway, having not kayaked yet, and armed with his descriptions, set fourth (editor's note: sic, no kidding--I was tired). I decided to go left first

Ed.: here the paragraph ceased, and the following was written two days afterwards, and the intervening time and experiences might be thought to color what is written hereafter:

and was met with a nigh-unpassable channel but passed it nonetheless, until it terminated in a pool just (and I do really mean just) big enough to turn the kayak around by getting out and throwing it against the reeds; Richard later recounted to me that he had been forced to do the same, and the revelation changed the way I viewed the good spirits in which we had found him. But anyway. I turned around and walked the kayak back upstream to the fork, and barely resolved to see things through to the end (this walking, by the way, was when I shouted the Liturgy for none of the world I knew to hear--the riber bottom here is deep and kinetic mud and I have an irrationally energetic fear of leeches and other bottomdwellers and I was on the verge of tears, which in my opinion is realy the only way the Prayer really counts). So I started down that way, over a beaver dam, through chutes so shallow and narrow I had to put the paddle in the boat and pull myself through with the reeds. But I survived and now here I am.

Keeping Other People Awake

Short post from August 2nd, at Coffee Pot Landing, 9 RMs from Wanagan--An exhilarating, wretched, exciting, disastrous, bona fide treat of a day. Discoveries made in the last 12 hrs:

1) The river is kind of a hot mess.

2) In times of intense fear and alienation and crisis, I summon, for who knows what reason, the Lord's Prayer, and belt it at great volume to the wind and the reeds (ha, wind and reeds are musical terms).

3) There are places, in these early few days, where one's route along the river is so unclear, and navigational aids so thoroughly unhelpful, that our plans change.

4) Under certain conditions of hunger, endorphin quantity, and joy of being alive, even Applebee's can taste orgasmically good, and one beer can do you right in.

***

Richard on the one good thing about getting lost in the wetlands (paraphrased): “The search and rescue team would probably be quite handsome.”

Who am I to disagree?

First Day

Wanagan Landing, 6 River Miles (hereafter RMs) from Headwaters--I simply cannot imagine why one would choose to stay at a State or National Park when wonders such as this are available. Never mind the fact that staying here is free while Itasca cost $20 per night, there is really nothing like being alone out here.

The first day of a trip plays an important role in that it sets the tone for the remainder. I feel as though I have nothing to say that hasn't already been said--not sure if this is just some sort of short-term adjustment, a calibration to disallow the possibility of saying really dumb things, or if it's just that I haven't been in the kayak yet. In that respect, my trip won't start until the day after tomorrow.

I've recently discovered that when I can't find anything interesting to say, I should start by merely observing, describing, and documenting--sometimes this leads to odd and wonderful places; but even when it doesn't, at least there's something on the paper.

The Mississippi in this area is barely a river--it's realy no more than a 3 ft deep, 10 ft wide channel through wetlands. There are many geographical terms I find ambiguous, even though there might be perfectly good technical distinctions--when does a pond become a lake? when a mesa a butte or plateau? a meadow a prairie? a strait an isthmus?--but I thought I had a pretty good grasp on a river. This is more of a stream.

I'd like to keep track of place names along the River. Lake Itasca, for example, is from Latin: “verITAS CAput” (“true head”, a little ungrammatically); but it's meant to sound Native, like Wanagam: a clerk told Richard that it derives from an early settler here, Wegmann (which fits the supermarket chain, of course, just fine).

From the road, you reach Wanagan Landing via a long (1.5+ miles), bumpy, muddy, sometimes sandy road. We scoped it out last night, which was prudent, because I doubt I would have made it down here under greater duress. As it was, Richard biked here in about 25 minutes and waited an hour or more for me to arrive, as I was waiting at a bridge to check up on Eve. She kayaked six miles in 2-2.5 hours at a very slow pace and arrived at Wanagan at 1:15, at which point Richard and I had unpacked the car and set up camp (which, for the time being, consists of a large screen tent for gathering and eating, a hammock with bug net and rain tarp for Eve, and a large tent for Richard and myself, to save the trouble of setting up my own tent).

Can't wait for Internet and phone service, which will probably have to wait until Bemidji in a few days. By that time I'll probably have close to seven or eight entries ready to go. From there on, for a little while at least, it looks a bit more civilized, though Internet still might be a little spotty.